A Day in the Life of Tweek
by Cherry Champagne
Summary: So the violent, bad tempered boys can't fall in love? Creeky abuse fic.


I feel bad leaning on Clyde at times like these. He doesn't have much of an option—take me in, turn me away, and really, the last one isn't much of a choice—Clyde is lazy, but he's nice, and we're friends. Hell, best friends, if you believe you can have more than one.

He barely looks at me before getting out of the doorway, letting me follow him inside.

We've had the conversation enough times that there's no point in repeating it—we know it by heart. I'm right, anyway. He thinks he's right, but what does he know? Looking in through a window doesn't show you the whole room.

I sit on the edge of the couch cushion, my back arched inward, biting the scabs off the ends of my fingers. He looks incredulously at me, unintentionally down his nose, because he's standing up and I'm sitting down. Still, the position's there. The phrase comes from somewhere.

I turn away. Letting me sleep on his couch doesn't give him the right to look at me like that.

It's complicated. There's no perfect words for it, so you can't understand it unless you're the one with the bruises and hickies and burns.

He sighs, loud, chest heaving, and shrugs with one shoulder. "Want me to make some coffee?"

"Yeah, err, please."

He scratches his hip, lifting his shirt, as he walks toward the kitchen.

I can't really name the first time it happened. I think the two came together, and as the host grew, the parasite fed off of it and grew proportionately. Let's hang out this weekend, hair pulling, you're the only person I could ever love this much, broken ribs. I should know by now what to do to avoid it. I should try harder.

This time, like every other time, it's my fault. I sit around on my butt all day while Craig supports me, pays for the apartment, comes home and kisses me, buys me presents, takes care of my every need. The moment he makes a request, I should be on it. He asked me to call the bank and ask them about some problem with the balance—he apparently had a lot less than he thought he should, probably a simple mistake, he said, as he gave me a brief hug and went to get dressed for work. I spent the first half of the day staring at the phone, biting off the tips of my fingers. I worked up the courage to dial the first half of the number, slam down the receiver, pick it up, get to the first ring, then hang up again. I started on dinner, 'til all was left to do was put it on the stove, which I would wait to do until Craig was almost home so it would still be hot. Watered the plants around the phone, dusted the phone, picked up the phone, listened to the ring tone. Cried a little. Shivering and crying, picked up the phone, dialed, waited for a ring and a half before a teller picked up. She told me her name before I started having a panic attack loudly into the phone, causing her to hang up. Unplugged the phone and spent an hour huddled under the comforter at the foot of the bed, trying to get air into my lungs.

The door hit its hinges, hard, as Craig threw open the door. He shouted my name, throwing down his bag, and rushed through the house—it's small enough that by walking in a straight line, you can see most of it, with the bedroom being the last stop.

I sat up, the blanket falling off my head and onto my shoulders, shaking violently. His eyes lit up upon seeing me, bottom lip jut out, a picture of loving concern turned reassurance. "Tweek! What the hell, why is the phone disconnected? I thought something happened to you!" He crawls onto the bed on his knees, his weight making the old bed springs creak, and wraps his arms around my neck, our arched abdomens fitting together nicely.

"I—I—I—" I sob uselessly.

"What? What'd you do?"

"I couldn't—ergh—I didn't c—call the bank…I'm sorry, Craig, I'm so sorry, I didn't want to mess it up and get us bankrupt or—"

He pulls back off of me, looking pissed. "Why did you unplug the phone? Jesus, Tweek, I spent the last hour thinking you might be fucking dead, and you just had your usual pussy freak-out? What if there was an accident or something, and I needed you? Don't unplug the fucking phone!" After a brief slap across the face, he stands up, off the bed, his feet apart, glaring at the corner behind me where the two walls and the ceiling meet. Swearing under his breath, he walks out of the room. I moan and crawl back into under the blanket, just wanting a few minutes to get myself together—to stop crying. He didn't hit hard. Smack a dog on the nose with a newspaper when he craps on the carpet. _No! Bad boy!_

He calls from the living room, "Tweek, make yourself useful and make dinner!"

I teeter between getting up, blotchy–faced and leaking, or staying in bed for a couple more minutes.

"TWEEK! GET YOUR LAZY ASS OUT OF BED!"

I whimper as I crawl out from the warm shelter and into the apartment.

He has the phone pressed to his ear, tapping his foot, looking fuck-the-world. I do my best not to call attention to myself as I sneak past, to the kitchen. My socks had come loose; I step on the loose toe with my opposite foot and trip, falling in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. The moment I hit the floor, I look up to see Craig's reaction; he sighs loudly, rolls his eyes, rolls his whole head, sort of, and slams the phone down, making the side table it's resting on jump.

"The bank's fucking closed. Tomorrow's Sunday, for fuck's sake, I'm going to have to wait 'til Tuesday to get this shit taken care of." Tuesday's his next day off. We always did little things on his days off, go grocery shopping together, movies, your basic lazy romantic weekend compressed into a weekday. "What're you doing? Get up!"

I scramble to my feet, the oversized sock falling off my foot, and rush to the fridge. Dinner was spaghetti; I had to reheat the sauce and boil the pasta. I decided to throw together a small dessert, all it really takes to get the fight out of Craig is a small reassurance, a reminder that he loves me and wants me to be happy more than he wants to be angry.

I jerk the knob to turn the heat onto the stove; putting it on high, hotter than it needed to be, but faster than low. In a panic, I rush to the fridge, stumbling slightly. My arms twitching rapidly, and moving a bit too fast, as I swing the pot out of the fridge, I drop it. It clatters loudly to the tile, the lid rolling under the table, splattering sauce across the floor, the counter, the rug, and me.

My slow trickle of tears and snot suddenly explodes. I give a scraping bark, throwing my face into my hands, and start sobbing loudly. Not for the mess, or the fact that I'd messed up again, or for undoubtedly making Craig angry, but for myself; for my bad luck, for my near future.

Craig pushed air out of his mouth loudly as he observes my mistake. He walks toward me, stepping over the sauce. I shuffle back, biting my lip, eyes wide, slipping a little on the slick tile.

"What the fuck, Tweek? Can you do one thing, one _fucking_ thing, without making another fucking mess for me to clean up? Are you just completely useless?"

I slip entirely. My arms juts out, searching for something to catch my fall on, and hits the burner. My hand stings sharply for a split second; I give a squawk, grab it at the wrist, and pull it to my chest. Already, the tingling numbness passes, and I feel the bright, throbbing burn.

He grabs my hand away, twists my arm awkwardly, and shoves it back down onto the burner.

It only lasts for a second; before I can cry out, he twists my arm the wrong way again, throwing me down onto the kitchen floor. My brow bursts. He kicks me in the side, not a punctuating kick, but one that hits like a sledgehammer, bending my ribs just under the breaking point. He steps over me to leave.

By the time I've gotten my abdomen off the ground, using one arm, he's back with a small stack of towels. Blood, or spaghetti sauce, runs into my eye. Through the clear one, I watch as he squats, using the first towel to push the mess into a deeper, smaller puddle, scoops up as much as he can manage, and gets the next towel. Quickly, though poorly done, I watch from halfway under the table as he wipes down the counter, the smeared remains on the slick tile, and folds up the rug, setting it out of the way.

I shiver and recede further into my shelter as he sits down, Indian style, on the ground, pulls and lighter and a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket, and lights up.

We sit like that, a portrait; Domestic Abuse, circa late 2000s, the man having a post-ass-kicking smoke while the ass kicked cowers like a scared four year old.

Once he's almost to the filter, he raises his eyes to look at me.

I love him so much.

He puts the cigarette out on my cheek.

"Y'gonna go run off to Clyde's?" He grunts, watching carelessly as I bite my thumb, hard, trying not to cry out in pain. I nod. "S'cold out, bring a scarf."

---

Clyde returns, holding a coffee cup—my coffee cup. They're bigger than normal, about two and a half measuring cups full—I have one at home, one here, and one at Token's. I grab it hungrily with my good hand.

"I'm sorry if this is too invasive, but could I please clean you up a bit? If you wouldn't mind." Douche.

I try to nod and drink at the same time; I slop hot coffee down the front of my jacket. He gestures for me to follow him to the bathroom.

Clyde's really not the type to have a full medicine cabinet; he's more of a toothpaste and Tums kind of guy. However, he's gradually built up a supply of medical supplies. He pulls out the band-aids, disinfectant, and some sort of ointment in a tube. Quietly, he sets to smearing me with stuff. He picks through my hair for a cut; I tell him its spaghetti sauce. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't ask questions.

I feel bored more than anything.

"Done. You wanna take a shower?"

I'm tired. Tired and dehydrated from crying, tired from pain, from depression, from not having slept for two days.

"No. Ughn, can I borrow something to sleep in?"

--

I'm a light sleeper; I wake up a little bit on the first three knocks, and am out of bed by the fifth. The red letters on the clock sitting on the TV say 4:22. Clumsily, I untangle myself from the sheet, and, knocking into things every step or so, manage to make it to the door, falling against it, my eyes half open. My mouth tasted like puke, my head throbbed, I was momentarily blinded from the blood rushing to my head, and just keeping myself upright, even while supporting myself on the door, is an effort.

The knocking starts again.

"Who's there?" I ask the wood.

"Tweek?"

Somewhat desperately, I turn the lock and grab the door handle—wrong hand, fuck fuck shit ass—grab it with the other, and wrench it open.

He gasps a little. Illuminated by the yellow security light, I see his face clearly; his eyes are wide, red, veiny.

In a tidal wave of choked words, I gather a few bits of information. He's sorry, he's such a fucking asshole, he loves me so much, he wants me to come home so bad, but he understand if I won't, god he's _such an asshole_.

He's wearing the same clothes, same red stains on the knees.

I smile weakly, nod, and back inside to write a note for Clyde.

--

On the walk home, we hold hands. It's cold, but for once, without snow. The world feels frozen. No cars pass. Craig, Tweek, sky, grass. I rest my head on his shoulder for a while, yawning occasionally, until I stumble on my own feet. He scoops me into his arms and carries me the last quarter mile.

When we get home, he awkwardly tries to kick off his shoes—gets one off, the other stuck around the arch, and set me down, before picking me back up again, walking me to the bedroom, and dropping me on the bed. He takes off my shoes, my sock, kisses the foot, and sets to undressing me the rest of the way.

We don't have sex. Not in general terms—we have sex, yes, but not tonight. Tonight, there's nothing physical about our love. Bodies die.

It's going to happen again. Probably soon. And I'm going to let it. It's so worth it.

--

A/N: First Creek fic I ever read was the FANTASTICALLY written and, even like, a year and a half later, haunting, Who's Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses? by The English Professor. If you wanna cry, read it. If you don't, you'll cry and you'll like it. Sorry if I offended anyone, I'm incredibly stupid and have no idea what I'm talking about. I have been in one _very_ vaguely abusive relationship—the worst he did was grab me by the arm and swing me head-first into a brick wall, blinding me for few seconds, then walked away, and I laughed while I stumbled to my feet, trying to blink my vision back. So I'm not the best person to sympathize with your offense. I'll…I'll probably laugh. –going to hell- LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE TO SHORT STORY END!


End file.
